multiversallogs | 002 | CLOSED. join the children of hell.

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002 | CLOSED. join the children of hell.

Who: Hasibe Ozcelik, John Mitchell, possibly certain others
What: Hasi drags Mitchell to Gutters, pretending it is "for her protection".
Where: Gutters!
When: Evening, lateish.
Notes: Your log page is belong to Kays.
Warnings: Hahaha uhh. It's a vampire bar and Hasibe exists. Stay tuned.

Ending up at Gutters was always in the plan, for Hasibe. She had made a list of all the bars and clubs she absolutely needed to hit up ("needed" at least in the context of her own mind), and since this place came recommended, it was bumped up a few notches on the list. Cognizant of the danger inherent to the place, she'd even managed to wrangle a companion, though her motivations for persuading him to come along had less to do with her own need for protection--at least, that was how she saw it--and more to do with her desire to push him into interacting with his own kind. It was convenient for both of them...and, for the purposes of particular other activities of hers, gave her ample opportunity to observe the effect recent events had on the population.

There's always an ulterior motive with this one. She sees it as benevolent.

Mitchell probably didn't need the help, though. She'd even admit that, freely. But she has her ways of showing her interest in people, and arranging social situations for them with varying degrees of subtlety happens to be one of them. Once they make their way into the bar, buried as it is in the undercity of Mafaton, she abandons her coat, which means she is fully unveiled in her patently ridiculous white dress with its cut-out spaces, and accompanying towering black leather ankle boots. It's not exactly dressing to blend in down here.

(She gets a little bit of silly entertainment out of wearing pristine white to places where everyone is almost certainly dressed dark. It's a thing.)

"What do you think?" Hasi inquires, smiling at Mitchell. She loves the undercity, of course.

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"It doesn't get that complicated after the basics."

Or does it, Deacon, tilting a look towards Hasibe before returning it to Mitchell. "Just a lot of dead vampires and whatever political bullshit stirred it up in the first place. Hell of a welcome," is tossed more specifically to Mitchell, before another veil of smoke is sent up on needless exhale.

"Ivan, huh? He's quicker to make friends than I realised."

Hasibe tilts her head to the side at that, expression lightening--it was still, not somber but possessed of a perfectly and curiously doll-like blankness, when Deacon looked her way. She smiles, again, and when she does tip to the side, it has the not remotely inadvertent side effect of resting her head, briefly, on Mitchell's shoulder.

"I don't think that's exactly it," she says, and then Deacon and his cigarette inspire her to find her own. Her brand, currently, is Black Devils in rose. Even her hedonism is imported.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots someone being fed on--willingly, it looks like, but it's hard to tell, isn't it?--by not one, but two vampires. Hasibe transparently watches for a moment, tongue briefly touching the back of her teeth (the gesture thoughtful, a little distracted) and then refocuses on her current company.

"We go back. About eighty years or so." Give or take. It's not like they're counting.

His attention is momentarily drawn away from the conversation by Hasibe's gaze and suddenly all thoughts of political intrigue are gone from Mitchell's mind. Something in him distinctly tenses as he watches the feeding but, unlike Hasibe, consent isn't what's concerning him.

He thinks he should feel a little more disgusted with himself when he snaps out of it with a deep swallow of nothing. "...no. I wouldn't either." It's probably the distraction that gets him to admit, "And I know bullshit."

Edited 2011-11-14 08:46 (UTC)

Elbows on the table and in a comfortable slouch designed to nurse embered cigarette, Deacon offers lighter to Hasibe in open enough gesture; she can either take the thing or lean in for flame. Either way, Deacon isn't paying any mind to the quasi-willing feeding going on, the way hard, cold hands rough-handle and re-position warmer human body between them to dig fangs into throats and arms. It's the kind of thing he sees every night.

No, instead, he watches Mitchell watch them, something not quite adding up for him when it comes to the age drop and the tension signals. His fingernails score along his jaw in fidgeted contemplation. By the time Mitchell is forcing his attention back onto the conversation, Deacon greets him with a wide enough smile.

"Must've been easy for them. They got it into the blood, after all. It's why we serve it fresh around here. Your friend, Ivan, agrees."

Edited 2011-11-14 11:52 (UTC)

Hasibe chooses the lean-forward routine, murmuring her thank you with a hint of a twang to it. When she straightens, Mitchell's focus does not go unnoticed...nor does Deacon's. She thinks about it for a second, and once the former's attention is righted, decides she'll give them a moment to confer vampire-to-vampire. It's not that she wants Mitchell to hurt anyone, but something is clearly wrong, temptation brushing at the side of his consciousness, and, well. She's on the other side.

She gives his knee a squeeze, conveniently sitting right up next to him as she is, and leans in to speak into Mitchell's ear. A little bit unfairly.

"I'm going to get another drink," Hasibe says, and when she rises, it's with her cigarette aloft and her dress somehow, miraculously, not wrinkled.

(Using telekinesis to keep your absurd clothing perfect is probably cheating, but who would ever know.)

Hasi gives the pair a smiling glance over her shoulder when she crosses the nearby threshold exiting the lounge they're in, but then she's gone toward the bar. Or maybe to dance, which is possibly a risky endeavor, but she stays easily visible in the crowd, given her height and attire.

Edited 2011-11-14 12:10 (UTC)

Mitchell nods, looking up to watch Hasibe as she leaves (not...completely like that, hush) and avoid the spectacle of the feeding vampires. After a moment, he turns back to face Deacon and his grin.

"Yeah. When we drink blood, it needs to be straight from the source or else fresh as possible."

Well, this is a new level of social navigation. At least in Bristol he could say he was abstaining and the other vampires would laugh but do little else, due the bloody reputation he had carved for himself some forty years prior. Here, on the other hand...

Here, things were different. He still wasn't sure what to make of that. He wasn't sure who to be.

"I wouldn't know what I can get by on otherwise. I haven't really tried."

When Hasibe moves away, god bless her and her assets, Deacon's attention does not drag along with her. However, he does flick a glance her way to indicate her to Mitchell, tapping ash off the end of cigarette. "I'd make the 'whore in a church' analogy, but with respect to your lady friend and considering the circumstances, I'll refrain. But you don't seem so..."

He tracks his attention towards the feeding, where the human's head is flopping like dead weight on delicate neck, passed out or worse from sheer amount taken. "Comfortable," Deacon finishes. "Want me to buy you a round?"

"I've...been having some issues with self-control lately," is what Mitchell settles on between starting to talk and a very noticeable pause where his attention is drawn away again. "I've always been a messy eater," he muses, which is very, very true.

He turns his attention back to Deacon rather firmly. "Despite appearances, I'm finding this entire...thing, place, whatever, weird as fuck. I mean, vampires as everyday citizens. What is that even?" With Hasibe and any male posturing moved out of the way, it seems as though someone feels a bit more free to talk vampire-to-vampire. "Don't get me wrong, I've always wondered what it would be like. But...what? We get jobs, we live as ordinary citizens, we take care of feeding through legal means? In one city, for however long we live. That's it?"

There's an odd dissatsifaction to his words, wrapped within circles of self-righteousness, narcissism and a deep, usually hidden desire to rage against everything in his way. The vampire world and the human world are mixed and there's no clear way to reject one or the other.

(It doesn't seem like such a special way to torture himself now everyone is doing it.)

He has Frost's interest, in a science project kind of way, attention halved between Mitchell and burning down his cigarette and otherwise watching pale ash gather, burn, drop. A wider awareness of his territory, too, not exactly a sense that can qualify as 'sixth' but he is, in his own way, watching Hasibe's progression to get her drink without actually looking, more out of an interest to see what the predators in the room will be doing. That she is with people is a help, but there are always some idiots out there.

But as for Mitchell, sentiments fall alien on Deacon's ears, but not all of them. "I'm still figuring Baedal out," he admits. "I'm not sure what the fucking end game is meant to be, what the point of it is, but I left nothing behind I miss."

So he's willing to play it out. He breathes in more smoke.

"We were secret in the world I came from too. Hiding. Not exactly how I'd run things, but I don't really dig on being model citizens when it's humans or--" Eye roll. "Whatever writing the rules. True Blood, blood bags, and then a slap on the wrist and a little sabotage when we start getting too many. Fuck feeding legally, I mean, just listen to that. I don't even trust vampire laws half the time."

He snorts out a draconic puff of smoke. "But listen to me, talking big, like it means anything. You're the one with the fucking problem. Self-control issues? Are you kidding me?" His criticism is somewhat jovial, as far as it goes, lacking hostility in backhanded disdain.

Mitchell shrugs. "I can't drink bagged. I don't think I could drink from someone without killing them." He's never really had cause to try, but the question is would he want to?

"Most of the time I hold off." Until he snaps. "It's less hassle. Less outside factors to deal with." Like body disposal and Herrick's smile and sing-song pat on the back. Or flower memorials and facebook pages filled with people's clichéd grief that he feels like he should care about more.

"But my type can eat food, drink whatever we like," and he tips his half-empty glass as proof. "I don't know what it's like for others here."

"Charmed life," is wry enough to be insincere, a faint trace of disgust at the notion of what Deacon would consider settling for less, writ into the line at his brow and the curve of his mouth. "Maybe you'd have less issues with control if you just did what came natural. For instance, I'm not sitting here wishing I was over there." The feeders, he means, and it's true; Deacon is neither bloodlusting fledgling nor thirsty. Which doesn't make him any less of a messy eater, of course, just one that gets it often enough.

"And you know, down here, the outside factors don't touch us. We keep things on a lockdown. There are places around Baedal that're the same way."

Out on the dance floor, Hasibe is cheerfully surrounded; it's hard for her to resist music for long, no matter the genre. She attracts some notice, possibly for her boldness, but only one person approaches her--and when she puts her hand to his face and looks him in the eyes, the interaction abruptly ceases. It's a moment that is so brief it is virtually unnoticeable unless you're keeping an eye on things. He withdraws, unsteady on his feet, and she slips back through the crowd, headed, fresh drink in hand, to resettle next to Mitchell.

Her smile is slight, but pleased that Deacon and Mitchell seem to be getting along better now. She doesn't say anything, though.

Well, it's not like Mitchell is looking for Deacon's approval. In fact, the smell of blood, the distant sounds of the few heartbeats in the bar pumping and fading, are getting to the point where everything is coming secondary.

"I have to say, I'd be lying if I didn't say I was considering a change in lifestyle."

He smiles a little absently to himself. It's not a nice smile. It does, however, brighten a little into something more genuine when Hasibe rejoins the table. For the most part, he's been unable to see her out the corner of his vision, but now and then he listens out for trouble. So far, no news seems to have been good news.

"Enjoying yourself?"

And the girl returns unscathed. Deacon's mild surprise is communicated in an eyebrow raise, but it's mostly affect - no doubt either vampire sitting here would have paid some attention, but all the same. He glances back where she came from as if to see what happened, before he takes a last breath of smoke, casts it out into the air once its lingered in under-used lungs for a decent space of time, and ashes it out in the tray set centre of the table.

A split second after Hasibe is settled, Deacon draws himself up to stand in languid movements. "Well, chief, if you change your mind, this place is open every night. And if everyday citizenry doesn't appeal, we also got alternatives."

But he isn't going to spell out the details in front of a non-crurovore, sympathiser or not. "You two have a nice evening."

"Always."

This is to Mitchell, paired with a brief brightening of her ever-present Mona Lisa smile. She makes her own fun. The short encounter with someone who got a bit too forward for her own preferences--and really, she might have welcomed that if she didn't understand that among predators you had to establish yourself as able to hold your own before you could play the game--aside, she likes the music here.

She is not surprised when Deacon rises.

"See you," Hasibe offers (she will...probably make a point of it; species is never a factor in whether she decides she's going to repeatedly inflict her own brand of quicksand interest on someone), perfectly aware that she missed something interesting, but she was betting on that. Planned that, really.

Edited 2011-11-18 13:44 (UTC)

"Yeah. See you around." Whether or not it's the promise of a return visit remains to be seen.

Once Deacon is gone, Mitchell wipes a hand over his face and for a moment there is a flicker of black, inhuman eyes, but it passes almost as quickly as it came. Instead, his attention refocuses on Hasibe.

"So." The implication being 'what next?' Never mind that one hand is fidgeting a little too much with the edge of the table.

So that's what watching someone choke-chain themselves back into place looks like. Hasibe is still, watching him, her hair falling loose over one shoulder. Her gaze flickers to his hand, and then back up to make her form of very steady eye contact, smile slight. A bit knowing, which she is aware can be all kinds of maddening for some people, but she doesn't know if Mitchell is one of them.

"So." Now she moves, reaching to delicately curl manicured fingertips around his hand and helpfully rest it atop the table for him. Helpful, Hasibe. "We have options. We can stay, go somewhere new, or just go home, but you should know I don't ever end the night when it's quite this young, so I do have a healthy number of places in mind."

"I think I could do with a change of scenery." And smell, and the taste of it in the air, god. His breathing right now is very rhythmic and deep. "If you don't mind."

The knowing look doesn't go unnoticed amidst Mitchell's distraction. No doubt Hasibe will have questions at some point, although he's not entirely sure he knows what his answers are right now.

Hasibe rises to collect her coat, obliging. She understands he's uncomfortable, now, and she's hoping that whatever instincts he's fighting don't drive him to lose control with her--that's not something she always minds, per se (far from it), but she hasn't told him the nature of her physiology.

"Come on, then. I know a place we can go."

They will have to break into it, but Hasibe doesn't totally parse 'trespassing laws' as applying to her. She loves the night too much to listen to rules about what parts of it she can't have. Even the tunnels to the surface will be a change in atmosphere for Mitchell.

The further away he gets from the scent of blood, the more Mitchell returns to normal, or at least what he'd insist was the usual him. As soon as they're shot of Gutters, he resumes conversation.

"Well. That could have gone a lot worse." There's something slightly upbeat in his tone, as if to highlight the understatement. "Although please tell me there will be no more vampires for tonight."

...forgetting himself, obviously.

She inclines her head to confirm that, aside from Mitchell himself, there will probably be no more vampires, but there's something faintly bemused in her expression. Like she wants to laugh, but doesn't quite know why. Her heels on the concrete leading up to the surface are a steady staccato accompanying their path, mostly-rhythmic.

"So I take it we're just pretending those last few moments didn't happen."

He is more than a little absurd (not that he realises it).

Considering her statement for a moment or so, Mitchell replies, "We don't have to." Which means ideally he would like to ignore it, but he's not going to push away her enquiries. He's a little too mentally exhausted from the self-denial and it shows.

She lifts one shoulder in a vague approximation of a lazy shrug. Hasi tucks her coat more securely around herself in preparation for the cold waiting for them above. "Let's start with what our new acquaintance in there had to say," she suggests, "since I am going to assume you weren't being propositioned."

If he was, she'd just be sorry she missed it.

Mitchell gives her a side-long look before replying, "No, I was not." His mouth opens for a moment as he considers questioning if he comes off that way. Then he wonders why he's concerned if Hasibe thinks of him like that at all. Circles within circles of neuroses.

"He offered to buy me a round." Presumably not a beer by the way Mitchell says it. "I said no thank you. For now. I don't -I don't know."

He stops for a moment, looking up at the absence of sky. "I'm still not sure how I want to live here."

She merely playfully raises her eyebrows in response to that look--she was entirely kidding, but the crux of the issue he's having is more interesting to her than propositions in potential. Hasibe exhales thoughtfully as they walk.

"It's a new place," she says, "you can do anything you want. The difficulty with that is discerning what your wants really are. You don't take blood at all, then?"

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